Life Cycles
by Katastrophi
Summary: John takes in a cat that he found on the street. He thinks that Sherlock is just being irrational and is mad that he isn't getting his way when he says that the cat can't stay. This small furry animal exposes wounds inside of Sherlock that had likely never seen the light of day and definitely ones that Sherlock never wanted to remember.
1. Chapter 1

**"I'd rather die for what I believe than live a life without meaning. And, now that I'm older I'm finding out how, what it means, to start over."** - "Life Cycles" by The Word Alive.

* * *

"No. Get rid of it." The snarl gracing Sherlock's face made his right laugh line twitch gently. His voice was deadpan as he refused to look at the offending ball of fur napping on his sofa.

The consulting detective discovered the monstrosity upon waking up from his celebratory end-of-the-case nap. Sherlock had been hoping to be presented with the happy face of his flatmate and the glorious smell of Dim Sum take away; but instead he was met with a sleeping cat who looked near obnoxiously relaxed against his favorite sitting pillow. How dare it.

John was sitting in his favorite chair, leaning back quite smugly as he was reading a tabloid he'd nicked from Mrs. Hudson. He casually flipped the page, reading some nonsense about the Royal Baby. The way John's eyebrows furrowed in concentration showed Sherlock that his flatmate was ignoring him. No one struggled that hard to read such drivel.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying not to shout. The last thing he needed was to have Mrs. Hudson walking up the stairs and asking if they were having another domestic. The woman was truly wonderful but her keen ability to make everyone's business her own wouldn't be welcome at the very moment. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and huffed loudly, letting his jaw pop and rest. "I know you hear me, John. Your knuckles tense and you throat tightens every time I speak; I observe remember? Why is there a damned cat where I like to lay?!"

Clearing his throat, the dirty blond shifted and closed the magazine. He looked up at the taller male, making eye contact. "I like her, I found her, Mrs. Hudson thinks she is cute as a button and I know you don't have a cat allergy, so I'm keeping her."

John's words washed over the detective, but didn't stop him from glaring. "I don't like animals. They are a waste of space and dull, no matter how many bloody videos you show me of cats falling off of things."

John shrugged. He didn't rightly care what his flatmate had to say on the matter. "She is staying. Aptly, Mrs. Hudson and I decided to name her Cluedo. Since you love that game so much, maybe it's sentimentality will rub off onto her."

Sherlock pursed his lips and sat down in his worn but unmistakably comfortable green leather chair. His long torso melded into the material and he tapped his fingers against the broad of his jaw, glaring at random thing around the room, including his annoying friend. "I don't like cats. I also don't have a sentimentality towards a board game."

"Doesn't really matter what you like and what you don't now does it? She is my cat." John didn't even look up from the grocery aisle gossip to answer the rather immature detective now flopping like an out of water flounder in his chair. "And you do so like Cluedo. Don't even go there, Sherlock. You begged me for a week and even offered tea just so I would play that bloody game with you."

Sherlock huffed and there was a sharp roll of his eyes. "It is a mental practice, John. It keeps me sharp when I'm surrounded by idiots, and don't even remotely look at me with that typical hurt look. You know exactly what I mean."

There were days where it just seemed perfectly rational to Dr. John Watson to chin the world's only consulting detective. He could further deduce, the doctor chuckled despite himself, that today was going to be one of those days. "It's a child's game, Sherlock. Much like the pile of Operation, Candyland and Chess off in the corner behind your chair."

Sherlock threw the doctor a rather pointed glare before pulling his knees to his chest. His soft flannel pyjamas bottoms were just a bit short for him, showing off the creamy skin of his ankles. The detective hated wearing socks, often complaining loudly to everyone within earshot about them when he was on a case. It was almost a reason for John to become highly acquainted with duct tape when they'd first met. With a purse of his lips, Sherlock spoke lowly, almost like a child being chided. "How did you know I don't have a cat allergy? You don't have my medical history passed my living with you. Surely you couldn't of deduced that. You have no data."

John gave a strong roll of eyes, putting his tabloid down for a second time, decidedly done with it. "Not everything is deductions and data, you git. It's on your list that your mother gave Mrs. Hudson. Now, I have a cat. She is sweet, her name is cluedo and so God as my witness I will make your life a living hell if you make her into one of those experiments."

Sherlock gruffed behind his knees and looked away, his eyes scanning over the cat's small frame. She was half curled on her back, small chest lifting and descending in a peaceful sleep. The curly haired man's lips twitched before he resolved on what to say. "No, I wouldn't ever do something to hurt your pet, John."

The thick tone in his flatmate's voice made John almost apologize for even insinuating as such. No, Sherlock wasn't a monster... Of course he wouldn't. John ran his fingers over the front of his jeans and stood up. "Right. Uhm, fancy some tea then?"

John didn't really need for Sherlock to answer him; he was hard pressed to remember a time that his rather eccentric flatmate didn't at least sip on a cup of tea presented to him by John. He padded over to the stove top and prepared the kettle, enjoying the mundane routine of making tea. The doctor found comfort in small things such as this; it kept at least one foot on the ground when cases and other day to day things with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes became far too complex or out of this world to properly grasp.

When given the warm purple mug, Sherlock nodded his thanks to his friend and took a rather liberal sip of the tea. Before fully getting to enjoy it, a rather familiar chirping noise filled the comfortably silent room. John's face scrunched in a mild disgust. "Oh Damn. Again?"

"The city's evil won't pause for us to enjoy our night's tea, John." Sherlock sat the cup down and stretched as he stood, several bones popping at once.

John nodded, a rather tired but happy look on his face. No matter what he said on the matter, Sherlock would know. Sherlock would know that there was no other place the doctor would ever want to be. A small trickle of warmth blossomed in the detective's chest but he didn't speak of it. There really was something better to be doing.

Walking towards his sleeping quarters, Sherlock threw a hand up to flag John. Despite himself, there was such a happy tone in his voice. "Be ready in 5 minutes, my blogger. The game is on!"


	2. Chapter 2

"**Here's a little taste of regret, and for the record, I am fine. And I try to build the nerve to put my feelings into words, but it never works.**" - "_Wonderland_" by I See Stars.

* * *

"Bloody hell, how did he possibly know about the note in her mouth. We checked the body over already!" Lestrade had a look on his face showing that he was purely amazed but that he could almost bite a nail in half from his crew's incompetence. Nothing stung a man's ego more than a snide look from the one and only Sherlock Holmes. This was... This was a bit different though, wasn't it?

"Maybe the freak put it there himself." Sergeant Sally Donovan stood beside her superior officer with her arms crossed tightly against her chest. There was a sad sort of malice lacing her voice. She had her gorgeous curly hair back in a tight ponytail, the light rain making it and her nerves a bit frazzled. She didn't know.

"Actually, there's really no way he could have." Anderson's voice was low behind her, almost solemn at the fact that she was wrong. The forensics scientist straightened his back and crossed his arms, matching Donovan. "This murder could have only happened near 24 hours ago. The damned bloodhound and his mate were on the other side of London, figuring out who was marking up the bank at the time; the bruising wouldn't allow for it."

Sally rubbed her forehead, seemingly annoyed with the world. "Right. Well, God be thankful for Sherlock Holmes then. Who else would have known that the victim wrote the name of their killer and put the paper in their mouth."

"Who indeed, Sally." The hat detective himself held a smug tone in his voice as he walked up to the three policemen.  
John teetered on the tips of his toes with his hands in his pockets as he watched an array of emotions wash over the Detective Sergeant's face. There was a running pool between himself, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson as to when she was going to just haul off and slap Sherlock. Sherlock was seemingly not phased at how irritated she was, or just truly didn't care. John glanced back at the body, unsure of how he should feel. Was Sherlock upset?

"Ah, we do have a distinct problem, though," Sherlock started, an almost puzzled expression sweeping his eyes. The cold blue was almost warm liquid in excitement. "The note is a fake. someone broke the jaw during rigor mortis to place the note. From the blow to the side of the head, one would think they broke their jaw then, but the bruising as John pointed out earlier, is far too recent."

When Sherlock paused, everyone looked quite astonished. John was the one to speak up. He cleared his throat before speaking. "So the note was a set up then? That's almost ingenious."

Sherlock gave a twitched smile to his flatmate for a split second before nodding. "It seems to be so."

John could see the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes from this new case. It was beyond obvious, even in the poorly lit alley they were standing in. Was Sherlock faking it? Was he upset that she was gone? Surely there was some form of remorse rattling his chest. Glancing over to Lestrade and the rest, it was clear that they saw it too. Sally looked almost murderous.

"Aye, it'd be good for you to know that there is a dead person just over there. they had to die and you look like a boy coming home from boarding school for summer holiday."

The light drained and it was almost like a lever had been pulled. Sherlock's mask of indifference fell onto his face and he nodded. "You're right, for once. But why exactly, did she have to die? Find out properly who she knew that would want to do this, and who the person on this note is and call us. No no, better not. All of your voices are beyond shrill over the phone. Text. Text me."

Lestrade cleared his throat, an air of authority surrounding him. He was the head detective after all. "Sherlock, things are pretty heavy against you right now. People are going to talk. She was your ex girlfriend after all. Those bloody tabloids just stopped running those sex scandal stories."

Sherlock's face was cold and his mouth pressed into a hard line. He was trying to make it seem like he didn't care. He did though; it was obvious to John at least. His voice was deep, unruly calm. "I had nothing to do with this, Detective Inspector. She threw my name under the bus and tried to make a quick spot of cash. I didn't care then, and I don't care now. She served her purpose to me. This, this was a crime of passion. As a respect to what she thought we had together, I will find her killer. Maybe I just want this to be over with, but Janine didn't deserve this fate."

The three Yarders stood there in shocked silence; the bite in the hat detective's voice almost visibly stunning them. Flipping up his collar, Sherlock started to walk off. He threw a hand up to signal a goodbye and slowed his pace so that his short legged doctor could follow. John had a gentle bounce in his run as his shoes slapped against the wet pavement. "So where do we go from there, Sherlock? If the notes a fake, then what?"

"I don't know, John. I don't like not knowing." Sherlock's hands were stuffed into his coat pocket, his jaw tight in annoyance.

The doctor nodded and fell into his normal stride with his friend slightly leading the way. He pulled his jumper around himself just a bit tighter, the cold starting to break through the fabric. Sherlock glanced over at John and gave a slight nod of his head, moving to the edge of the walk way to flag down a cab. Sherlock didn't want his flatmate's shoulder to seize or the arthritis to flare on his account.

Sherlock stripped his wet wool overcoat from his frame and tossed it onto the coat rack beside the doorway. He felt annoyed and mildly tired but there was no point in laying down when there was a case on hand. John followed suit in marching up the steps and shedding layers. Sherlock watched although absent from the plane of reality.

Down to his trousers and a button down shirt, John looked up at Sherlock's still oddly penetrating gaze. The detective's eyes were glassy and his face softened; but if anyone other than John saw him this way, the doctor was sure the normal population would see scrutiny. Clearing his throat slightly, it was obvious how tired the older of the two was. "Right. I'm going to bed then. G'night Sherlock. Try and eat or get some form of rest. You can put Cluedo in my room if she really does start to bother you."

Sherlock nodded as he pressed into the comforting material of his favorite chair. He didn't know what to think. He had been so sure that Janine had been behind Moriarty's reappearance. Everything had fit so well... What could he of missed that gave her such a damned fate? In a momentary break, Sherlock watched John's retreating form, the ever familiar sound of the stairs following him.

It was beyond selfish to be happy to have John back home, so immersed in his life once more; Sherlock couldn't help it though. Everything had been going so well, things were so...back to how they had once been. It was truly comforting to the reclusive detective. It wasn't as if Sherlock was happy about John and Mary's crumbled marriage, so what did he really have to feel guilty for?

_merroww._

Sherlock's brain almost went fuzzy at the distinct feline sound. His eyes darted around and he caught sight of the little animal at the doorway. The dark haired male felt his eyes dull at the way the cat walked through the living room. She was so bold, like she knew this was her rightful place to be. How loathsome.

He watched the cat moving through the maze of books and turned to focus on her. It would be bad manners to let his flatmate's cat get hurt on one of his experiments or any of the science equipment, right? The tuxedo fur cat was padding along as if his gaze didn't bother her in the slightest.

Sherlock's nose twitched and with a defeated sigh, he moved to the shared kitchen for a cup of late night tea. He had more pressing matters to worry about than a stupid animal ambling around the sitting room. Though there really were better things yet, maybe sleep just wasn't that bad of an idea.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Breathing you in when I want you out, finding our truth in a hope of doubt. Lying inside our quiet drama. Wearing your heart like a stolen dream, opening skies with your broken keys. No one can blind us any longer."_ - _"Spectrum"_ by **Zedd ft Matthew Koma**.

* * *

"This doesn't make sense. The note had his name scrawled on it in Janine's writing. HIS name, John." The tips of Sherlock's index and middle fingers were pressed into the dip between his bottom lip and chin. He was admittedly lost on where to go from there.

"John. Tea. Add another take of sugar if you don't mind."

Silence met the detective's ears and he flopped over from his position on the sofa. Breaking the steeple hold he had his hands in, Sherlock propped himself up, glancing around the front rooms of the flat. John wasn't there. Growling from the base of his throat, albeit sounding more akin to a smoker's death rattle, the raven haired male stood up to go and put the kettle on. His blogger had vanished and Sherlock no idea when to be expecting him again.

**Where are you? SH**

The text was short, but the fact that Sherlock noticed at all was a show that he was trying to be more attentive to John and that he cared, right? The consulting detective sat back down on the sofa and stared at his phone. It took near five minutes for the notification LED to flare. John must not have been too terribly busy.

**Only just noticed?**

Sherlock rolled his eyes sharply as he scanned the text. The older man sure enjoyed to antagonize him through phone messages; sometimes it really was tedious. Maybe a sarcastic text of his own would liven things up.

**I asked for tea and I didn't get it. I assumed you were out. SH**

The text alert was more hasty now; had it backfired in some way and John was mad at him? That just wouldn't do.

**I'm in a meeting with my wife if you must know. We're splitting up the flat and deciding custody issues.**

Ah, there was the answer. John wasn't angry with him; lawyers and sociopathic soon-to-be ex wives just seemed to get under his skin. A touch of normal conversation may put him in a better mood then.

**Boring. Takeaway? Or are you going to cook tonight? SH**

There was a bit of a break this time; near 20 minutes of Sherlock unlocking his phone and staring between it and the telly on the wall had passed. John seemed mildly irritated, it wasn't a good idea to text back.

**I don't know, are you actually going to eat?**

Sherlock read over the conversation again and rolled his eyes. Marriage, family, it was all quite the complicated mess and it was more efficient for John if the detective just stayed out of all of it. He had to admit that he definitely did feel bad for his friend... His wife and best friend both being sociopaths and having killed people (for their own benefit and not some queen-and-country shtick) in the past; surely that had to put a toll on John's mentality and judgement. Quite frankly, Sherlock had been scared for John and tried to run him, keeping him near constantly busy to, at the very least, momentarily forget the last few years.

Sherlock was of course, selfishly rejoicing in the warmth radiating from the upstairs bedroom in 221B once again. The detective really did hate himself most days. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair before standing up to catch the kettle before it made that awful whistling noise. On the way to the kitchen, there was a bit of loud shuffling and John's cat ran across the table, near knocking over a styrofoam cup from a week ago's order-in.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock's face was twisted in disgust as he swatted the fur ball away from the garbage litering the table.

He felt a great sigh rattle his chest as he grasped at the scruff on the back of Cluedo's neck. Making sure that he would not hurt the cat, Sherlock lifted her into the air and waited for the beast to curl into a motionless lump before depositing her onto John's chair. Sherlock's nostrils flared as he watched the animal and with a miniscule shake of his head, he picked Cluedo up again and sat her on the sofa. No one was allowed in John's chair except for John, and Sherlock if John was ever gone for too long.

Going back for his cup of tea, the detective added a bit more sugar than usual. Having slept longer than he had planned, the curly haired man was a bit soured at the thought of wasted time; especially with Janine's killer roaming free. Even thinking her name made Sherlock's stomach reel in pity. She wasn't a love interest by any means, nor was she that entertaining to be around but John would have called her a good person.

Janine didn't deserve such a nasty fate, even if those grocery store tabloids were warm with his name. The grip Sherlock held on his mug grew a small fraction tighter and he sighed, sinking down into his infamous leather chair. His back was in knots and the late morning sun pouring into the windows were enough to agitate him something fierce.

Sherlock's tea was forgotten after a few mild sips and he was out of his chair, face down onto the sofa. He could feel the cogs and gears moving and clicking precisely in his head as the physical plane of reality washed away. The fabric of the pillow his face was pressed into felt akin to running your fingers through the morning fog and the silk of his dressing gown licked at his skin like the underbelly of a baby goat. Goats were by far one of the detective's favorite mammals. There wasn't much of a scientific reason behind it, but their square pupils were fascinating and while their bleating was loud and at a minority obnoxious, Mycroft truly loathed them. Wasn't that a proper reason to really enjoy anything?

Sherlock pushed that train of thought aside before it became too deep rooted and analyzed the note with his mind's eye. The slip of paper was like a perfect hologram inside his mind, every twitch of his fingers giving him the control over the hard drive that John teasingly joked had replaced his brain. He wet his lips and analyzed the crinkles in the paper, wondering if he could have possibly missed anything in the shock of finding a friend dead.

The note had a definite crease through the middle, so it had been folded for a while. That meant it was prewritten, planted. Why was it in her handwriting? Where had he seen that lavender shaded paper before? Magnusson was dead, Sherlock had made sure of that... so why would the victim have needed such expensive stationary?

A weight on his leg snapped Sherlock from his thought progress, the facts of the paper glitching away as if there were a short in a screen. With a growl, the hat detective rose from his spot, weight held up on his forearms. Cluedo was laying over his calves, looking at him expectantly. Sherlock swore under his breath and carefully turned, the cat shifting with him easily.

Sherlock's right laugh line twitched, very visibly annoyed, but didn't move to push the feline away. Instead, the genius wiggled his legs free and pulled his knees to his chin. The black and white fur held a distinct pattern, almost as if the cat was forever wearing a suit akin to the ones Sherlock was fond of. Had that been a deciding factor in John's need to bring her into their lives? A loud huff pushed from Sherlock's chest and he felt his grip loosen at the thought.

No. This wasn't okay, he had to work on the case. The ice blue eyes that Cluedo seemed to possess were near scalding his skin; the creature was beckoning his attention.

Maybe talking out loud would help more; there was a warm body in the apartment now, so that was okay, right? Mrs. Hudson would no longer give him that pitying look and inquiry about friends while John was away if he made a habit to speak to this wretched beast. Oh John Watson, you are just a glorious Angel leaving blessings to make his life easier at all twists and turns.

"Janine's death just doesn't make sense. Moriarty's name... James Moriarty... It was written on her hand writing and shoved into her mouth hours after her death. She was bludgeoned to death with a blunt tool and then her head bashed against the cement of the alley way. It was so violent. It was personal. Who, besides me theoretically, would want to harm her so severely? It just seems like an awful set up attempt. There has to be more though... Did she know Moriarty through Magnusson? There are too many open variables and it is so interesting, Cluedo."

Sherlock's shoulders were limp and his lips a hard line after he finished speaking. The new four legged flatmate watched him intently, almost as if she were earnestly listening to him. Those eyes were so captivating, even for an idiotic animal. The stormy light blue, it was so familiar, they were like peering into home after a long day, or greeting the only person you can even platonically love after being "dead" for two years. Was this why Sherlock had decided to speak to this creature? Why did the soft furry animal remind him of his renewed flatmate and best friend?

Pushing the thoughts away, secured deep in a room of his mind palace for later scrutiny, Sherlock stood to fetch his tea. The cat gave off a loud mewl and followed him despite the small distance. "You really are like your owner. Just don't kill a cabbie, we can't afford that paper work at a time like this. Mycroft would have a baby goat."


End file.
